TO THE BONES OF AN EEL IN THE SUTCROFTS
I bade you wrestle, though the water you loved—
you were ever a slippery thing, sliding in the river
like an eel in the stream. My only son,
why did I seek to twist your softer heart
into my terrible shape? I was so sure it was right
to teach you my ways in war and in sport
lest I be ashamed of my son. But shame never stung
like the cold embrace of bitter death
for a boy of ten. Why did I tell you
that you could struggle against his strength and strive for victory
when it was plain to see you could not succeed against
the cruel kinsman of callous Fastred
in that meeting of hands? Your mother sought
to forbid you from the bout, yet I broke that oath
like many others, for men could not see
any weakness in my son; they would have whispered jokes
about your father’s failings. But you they freely mock
for now in the grave you cannot speak. Had I let them name me coward and shame me,
had I let them call you Wiglác the Weak and let you keep to the waters you loved
and yielded my honour, would you yet live?
Would you have loved a maid? Would she have made you a son?
Would you have shown him love? Or would you let him fight
with the kinsmen of the Reeve for your wretched honor
and bury the body of your broken child?
